“Hello there. I’m Father Greg. How can I help you?” he said, slightly annoyed.

“Hi. I’m Heather Hornne. My mom was Melinda Hornne, and I’ve heard from several people that you helped her?” My fingers were cold, and my teeth chattered briefly from nerves. “This would be about thirty years ago.”

He smiled and warmed with recognition. He had the smile of a philosophical academic. Even if he believed in soul-sucking demons, I liked him. The other guy too. Their uncleanliness was simultaneously off-putting and relatable.

“I remember you, Heather,” he said, his eyes wandering left, recalling something pleasant. “You and the kids used to run around in the yard, adding scraps of fabric and wood to your fort under the mulberry.” He sat down across from me. “It was you, Claire, and Donnie.”

I squeezed my hands into slippery, clammy fists. Nausea raced around in my belly like a trapped mouse.

Claire and Donnie.

I’d always wondered about my memories of these two.

“Who are Claire and Donnie?”

He smiled, his eyes liquid and kind. “You don’t remember? Oh, of course you don’t, you were so little. You and Claire were thick as thieves. Always giggling. Holding hands. Donnie was younger. My niece and nephew.” My head was warm and my palms were cold. I felt sick, yet relieved to be filling in a puzzle piece. “You and your mother stayed with my brother’s family. Cliff is a head doctor.” He raised his eyebrows, dubious of the profession.

The athletic priest quietly emerged from the hallway. He fetched a mug from the kitchen and went to the faucet.

“I had four siblings,” I said. “Did you know my oldest brother?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Why was I the only one living there?”

“You might not remember—you really were so young,” he said gently. “But you witnessed Dawn Young’s murder. My brother was helping you work through it.”

Chills racked my body so fast and hard, I shivered. No, that couldn’t be true. “I don’t remember witnessing her murder.”

“It’s probably better that way,” he said sadly.

“But—”

I had so many questions, but my mind was stuck, blanking. I should have written my questions down. It couldn’t be true, but why would he lie? Mom’s head doctor might have more answers. “Does your brother still live in town?”

“Cliff?” He leaned back and sighed like he had a bit of family baggage himself. “Yes, he’s the last house on Harvest Road. No outlet. The only house that looks like an elementary school. You could talk to his wife, but there’s hardly a point visiting him. Dementia, I think. He was fine this past Easter, but his symptoms came on quick. Getting old, as they say, sucks.”

The athletic priest laughed once. He opened the microwave before it beeped, retrieved his mug, and dunked a tea bag into it.